THE
MAGAZ
EHIE
COPYRIGHT, 1942, BY NATIONALGEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY, WASHINGTON, D. C. INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT SECURED
The Making of an Anzac
By HOWELL WALKER
With Illustrations from Photographsby the Author
FIFTEEN HUNDRED husky warriors
stormed a station on the then warless
continent of a warring world. Full of
fight and lusty banter, they raided the rail
way as Australians would.
Singing, laughing, cheering, they shared
their fate as lightly as their cigarettes. The
men entrained for a port of embarkation like
week-enders off for the country. They were
Anzacs leaving Australia for battle fronts
thousands of miles away.
Men, yes; but carefree as boarding-school
boys on a holiday. In addition to steel hel
met hanging from shoulder, a rifle, bayonet,
and overseas duffel, one Aussie found a couple
of free fingers for a bulky guitar (page 418).
Another Digger (any Australian soldier)
thumping his chest with a big brown fist,
humorously shouted out to me, "Last chance
for a photo of the best man in the A.I.F." *
Whether giant or common six-footer, bull
built or lank, 40 years tough or 19 handsome,
all enjoyed the inherited right to a refreshing
superiority complex. Some who had experi
enced a taste of the First World War were
returning for a second helping; one took his
son along-both full-fledged soldiers, privates
in the same company.
They crowded doorways and windows of
the train, munched hot dogs, swigged soft
drinks, shouted happy farewells to a few
civilians on the platform. Because virtually
no one is supposed to know when an entrain
ment will take place, you could count cats
out of bags by the girls present. Only one
Romeo succumbed to sentiment, and he did
a manly job with his hat on.
* Australian Imperial Force.
"Now you know why an Aussie's lid is
brimmed up on one side," remarked an old
soldier.
When the train pulled out and whistled in
the distance, I walked past half a dozen
soldiers, fully equipped for overseas, frozen
in after-the-storm silence.
With faraway
looks in their eyes they watched their com
rades disappear.
"What about these?" I asked an officer
near me.
"They are stand-bys," he answered.
"If
any men going away break down or vanish
at the last moment, they fill in. No one
broke down or failed to turn up this time; so
the stand-bys simply have to stand by.
They'll return to camp now, but will be among
the first to entrain at the next transshipment."
"Stand-bys" Await Their Turn
I glanced again at the stand-bys. They
just stood there, not saying a word. They all
looked as though they had received notices
of their mothers' deaths.
These men were separated from friends
they trained beside, hoped to fight beside,
prepared to die beside. That was hard to
take; harder still, to be deprived of the
journey to the front and the action to which
they had been so keyed up. No mere ob
server can understand how much they wanted
to get over there, and get there now. Weeks
of more camp routine and training made the
next transshipment of troops seem as far off
as an old-age pension.
"Stiff luck for those stand-bys," said an
other officer.
"They'll be wanting to pull
their bloomin' throats out."
VOL. LXXXI, No. 4
WASHINGTON
APRIL, 1942